


The fatal moment

by perpetualguilt



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, in which hamilton has to face his own worst enemy at the end of things - himself, other characters 'appear' in this but not really which is why i didnt tag them too, this is sort of vaguely an 'act 1 hamilton meets act 2 hamilton' type thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualguilt/pseuds/perpetualguilt
Summary: in the split-second after burr shoots him, hamilton's mind struggles to come to terms with the whole situation





	The fatal moment

A sharp crack hits his ears just moments before something _wrong_ settles in his chest - or perhaps just moments after? Time ceases to flow sensibly as it happens - and Alexander recoils, eyes widening, lips parting to draw in a painful breath. Memories, sensations, faces, his entire life spirals around him, rising fervidly into the atmosphere as if to break away and then crashing down on him as a harsh and bitter chill. His sight begins to slip: Burr's terminally inscrutable expression blurs with the colors of the nature behind him as everything that Alexander is or ever was rushes past and pulls his stiffening limbs in awkward directions, everything, everything-

Suddenly, there's this heavy foreign object slamming against his forehead and he hears a familiar voice cry out as the murkiness of his vision dissipates in a few surprised blinks. 

Alexander stumbles backwards until his ankle catches on some small rectangular object; he crashes to the floor gracelessly, letting loose a string of curses. Another thud lands synchronous to his own fall a few feet away and he hears himself swear again. Half of his body stings in some manner or another, and warm shock needles his frontal lobe unpleasantly. Groaning, he lifts one hand to clutch at his head and hoists his upper body upright with the other.

"Agh, what the hell?" he mutters.

Except he didn't. _He_ hadn't said anything. Except he'd just heard himself say that thing he had not said. His eyes snap up to examine the figure sprawled on the floor opposite to him, the person who had collided into him. Sitting there with one hand at his temple and one hand propping himself up, is himself. Him, Alexander Hamilton, but thin and hungry (in more ways than one) and 30 years younger than his current self. If Alexander had felt capable of passing out then and there, he would have. But he hardly feels much of anything besides a relentless throbbing ache, and so he can only gape dumbfounded at the sight before him, not understanding. 

Alexander (the other one) looks up at him in the same second; his jaw drops open. 

"What the _hell?"_ he (the other one) repeats, squinting and craning his neck as though it might help him confirm what he's seeing. "What is this? What- what is happening?"

Alexander (himself) slowly shakes his head.

"...I'm not sure." 

It isn't an outright lie, but the older Alexander would be a fool if he dared refuse to factor his most recent memory into this unnatural event, its legacy still freshly painted below his heart. In lieu of actual information, he nevertheless has his potent and devastating suspicions. After a lengthy pause, young Alexander scrabbles to stand, tugs his coat straight, and steps closer to old Alexander with a cautious pace. He offers his hand. Though reluctant to take it, illogically fearful of what world-shattering things might occur (yet considering that one of them was occurring this very instant, maybe that wasn't so much the issue), Alexander accepts and is pulled to his feet. Nothing happens, but the contact is wildly distressing, because he's holding _his own arm_ in a way that could never be possible naturally unless it were detached from his person. This can't be possible. His younger self must feel the same, quickly withdrawing two paces back as soon as his good deed is done. They both swallow thick, dry nothing.

"Wow. I can't even- I mean, I'm- I'm looking at _me._ This is impossible, right? Am I dreaming? Drunk? Have I gone mad?" young Alexander rambles, his gaze trained on his older self, who silently wishes he wouldn't stare. Old Alexander glances off to the side, to the scenery behind the other him, and just then he realizes where they are.

The light of daybreak casts its tender glow upon rolling ocean waters, stretched out endlessly around the ship on which they stand. The breeze moves the sails, water laps at the worn hull, and Alexander thinks he hears the suggestion of birds calling from the distance, but he can smell none of that fresh ocean air nor taste the salt in the back of his throat. He doesn't really recognize the ship either, or rather, he knows what ship it _should_ be but it also seems to resemble various different models he's seen or ridden. What's more, it's eerily quiet: he and himself are the only ones aboard. Despite how many times his mind has stated the impossibility of the things around him, Alexander knows they're on the bow of the ship that delivered him to New York all those years ago.

"Why here?" he muses aloud. He wanders over to the edge of the ship to grip something solid and peer at the water. "Why this moment?"

Young Alexander feels so many queries bubbling in his chest as his eyes follow the other. His head still buzzes acutely from injury, and as such, he struggles to organize the endless storm of thought barraging him. But curiosity burns at his core, compelling him to take some, _any_ form of action. Thus he steels his nerves and joins old Alexander's side, ignoring how both of them tauten at the proximity.

"What do you mean by that? Is there something wrong? Well, uh, barring the obvious." he presses. 

It's sort of a silly question, but his older self has hardly spoken or looked at him. As much as the present situation weirds him out, the other's demeanor is far more interesting. Because it's him, but he's not acting quite like himself, or at least not like the perception of 'himself’ he believes others regard from his actions- let alone that mess of self-regard. Not that he could've expected or conjured this literal self-regarding scenario in even his liveliest dreams. But yes, anyway, young Alexander may not totally comprehend the moment, but he's living in it and he's going to do what he can with it. Meanwhile, old Alexander cannot comprehend the moment and it frustrates him to no end, but he wills himself to pause and calm down lest he unravel in the absurdity. When he feels steady enough, his eyes drift over to his younger self. Surely this must be a trial. His purgatory. The final assessment of his character, before he can go to whatever awaits him beyond. A tiny, plaintive smile tugged at his lips.

"Barring the obvious, of course. It's just..." Old Alexander returns his attention to the ocean. "I remember this. I remember spending my days cooped up below deck, writing down anything that came to mind to distract myself from the anticipation. But every so often I'd force myself to come outside and make sure the world was still here, because-"

"-all the rocking and stale air makes me ill." the younger Alexander takes over with a small laugh. "And when I finally see land on the horizon-"

They both turn their heads toward the front of the ship. What had been an infinite seam of ocean and sky now nestles the unmistakable silhouette of civilization between them. Excitement spreads through young Alexander like sparking gunpowder, and he races to the very front of the ship, leaning all his weight on the wood, urging it to move him faster to his destiny. So eager to live, yet so headfirst, and reckless. 

"-I remember thinking to myself that this is where the rest of my life begins."

Young Alexander swivels back, a childish beam widening across his face, a pint of pale beer occupying each hand. Both of them blink once, and it's all the opportunity the environment requires to morph around them furtively: now they stand in a dusty but kempt tavern, young Alexander with their drinks at the counter, seemingly unfazed by the shift, and old Alexander drooping against a table near the entrance. It's the same place Burr had invited him to when they'd first met, old Alexander can't help but note. He doesn't recall the precise motion of sitting down, but in the next second he is seated at the table, his younger self across from him, sliding a glass under his nose.

"Let's drink to me- to you- to _us,"_ young Alexander cheerily proposes. "We made it!"

"We made it." old Alexander parrots, none of his counterpart's enthusiasm mimicked. He just stares into his beer and tosses back a hard swig. His tongue bathes in recollection of what beer ought to taste like, but once he gives it any fraction of deeper contemplation, the illusory flavor shatters. It may as well be water- no, it's less than water, for at least water satisfies one's thirst. It doesn't matter. He chugs the rest of it in one slow tilt.

"Burr certainly gives us some unusual advice in this place, doesn't he?"

Young Alexander's abrupt question catches old Alexander by surprise, though he supposes it isn't an unfounded one considering where they are. Self preservation urges him to push down the conflict stirring in him at the mere mention of Burr, to feign a pleasant attitude as he talks around the issue, irony searing in his veins. Maybe hot enough to cauterize the wound. But... he can't. He's too tired now, at the end of all things. It must be the end. If ever there was a time to dwell overlong on the consequences of revealing too much, after a lifetime of tumbling ass-first into one dramatic spectacle after another, he's missed it. His time is up. Only consequences live in his afterthought, and besides, he sees no benefit in lying to himself.

"It seemed unusual at first, to be sure," he begins. Not even he knows the whole of what he wants to say. "But I've long since come to realize that there was merit to his advice. Back then I thought he was a fool to live by such a- such an inflexible philosophy; it didn't occur to me that mine might have been just the same. Had I heeded his words a little sooner, had I taken a little more care in life, we might not have-- I might not be--"

He instinctively clutches at his ribs, the spot of his fatal injury, quickly finding that no matter how hard he digs his fingers into the fabric of his coat, the incessant dull pain doesn't intensify any; he can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse. Young Alexander's smile contorts into perturbed understanding. In unison, both of them air out the obvious:

"I'm dying."

"Burr? Burr _shoots_ me?" the younger gawks in disbelief, his own fingers brushing subliminally across his abdomen. Can phantom pains trickle backwards to past selves?

Old Alexander just nods. 

"Where the hell does he find the gall! And- and what have _I_ ever done to- oh, no, no, nevermind, actually. I can imagine."

The auroral light wafting through the tavern's windows fades away with respect to the new atmosphere, as out-of-sight candles flicker to life of their own volition. 'Outside' is more of a concept here than anything, but the dark scene beyond the windows suggests that day has turned to night while they weren't looking. Their pint glasses have refilled, somehow, and they're seated at a slightly larger table tucked in the corner of a different tavern, though neither of them have moved an inch.

"Unbelievable. To think I consider him my friend."

"He was, though, in some way or another," old Alexander challenged, recalling a very similar sentiment from Burr to himself. "But I'll admit I didn't exactly give it my best try."

"Are you joking? That was figurative, don't answer; I know you aren't. But I mean, even setting philosophical differences aside, at most we really only tolerate each other. I'm fairly sure that a true friend wouldn't kill someone he favors."

"Right. About that." Old Hamilton fiddles with his pint glass while he speaks. "We did have sort of a falling out, which began-"

His attempt to pinpoint the singular moment from which everything had unraveled eludes him momentarily. It's a tough verdict. So much has happened to him, and because of him.

"Well, let's just say that it was years in the making. And it resulted in a duel between us, which, to be perfectly candid, I... may or may not have goaded him into."

Young Alexander scoffs, though he won't deny that it's the truth. "I might have assumed he only wanted to resolve his wounded pride. I wouldn’t expect him to- Why would he _shoot_ me? He wanted his apology that badly?"

Young Alexander drains his second beer.

"He'll never get it now."

When he slams the empty glass on the table, it sounds remarkably like gunfire blasting right in old Alexander's face, far too close, and his entire body flinches as the cacophony rings in his skull. He clings more tightly to his own musket. All around him, faceless shadows clad in the uniforms of their respective loyalties clash, his younger counterpart among them. Their clothes are torn and covered in splotches of ugly discoloration, their hands filthy with gunpowder and wanton murder. He watches himself plunge a bayonet into a redcoat, staining his coat with a fresh badge of honor- or, something that they'll call honor when they win the war. Reliving this gruesome chaos dregs up old tendencies for aggression in his muscle memory, leading old Alexander to dash over to young Alexander's side to cover him. 

He raises his gun to the first flash of movement that catches his eye from about twenty paces away: Aaron Burr halts firmly opposite to him, starkly real compared to the vague shapes too absorbed in reenacting combat to pay them any attention. Burr has his hand stretched out toward him oddly, as if pointing something invisible in his direction. His dark expression bores into him, his intent aggravatingly indecipherable. Before old Alexander can act, his counterpart swivels around and takes aim at Burr. _No. Wait._

The trigger jams.

Alexander's whole... everything feels unnervingly awry. _Wrong. This never happened._ The nagging wound in his chest won't let him forget it.

Swearing, young Alexander tosses his gun aside and it shatters into ash the moment it hits the ground. The shadows on the battlefield lose their humanoid forms, each one disintegrating into a pillar of gray flame and congealing with each other until the entire field is burning, encircling the three of them.

"Hurry, lend me your gun!" young Alexander yells over the fire's nonexistent roar. He holds his hands out to receive it, but old Alexander shakes his head furiously. He can do it. But he doesn't- he _didn't._ He wouldn't.

His weapon breaks into two pieces as he's holding it, momentarily diverting his focus down to his hands in his surprise. He has a pistol in each hand. His dueling pistols. Deep, deep foreboding chills him, immobilizing him entirely except for the tremors in his fingers. He somehow knows what he'll see, _who_ he'll see, when he looks back up, and he can't. He just can't.

"What! What's the matter with you?" young Alexander entreats, apprehension mounting. The threat across from them could attack at any moment, he worries. He doesn’t see or recognize that the threat is Burr; to him, it’s just another redcoat hellbent on taking his life. "What do you stall for!?"

Young Alexander's eyes dart to Burr. Correction: to where Burr had been moments ago. Standing in his place is a man about his age, with untamed curly hair and freckled cheeks and a fierce, plucky gaze even as his jaw is set and his brows are drawn up in trepidation. He's no longer aiming at them, but directly upward, index finger imploring the sky. Young Alexander squints confusedly at him. Something about the man seems awfully familiar, but it's as if the answer dangles just out of his comprehension, from- oh, from a memory that isn't quite _his._ Not yet.

Young Alexander turns to his older self.

"Who is that?"

Old Alexander ignores the question and grinds his teeth together to delay the anguish pooling in his eyes, the corners of his mouth quivering against his will. If he opens his mouth, what will come spilling out of him? What can he possibly say? Where have all of his words gone now that he most desperately needs them? He attempts to draw in a breath, only to realize that he can't. He isn't breathing at all. He doesn't even hear his heartbeat because there's simply nothing in his chest. Has this always been true, or is he deteriorating?

He drops the pistols in fright and his head lurches up to meet the other man's eyes, the momentum of the action loosing streaks of hot tears down his face. Regardless of whether or not he is weeping before a mere illusion conjured by his mind, the very real guilt in his soul prevents him from letting this moment pass having said nothing at all.

"Philip, I-"

From the corner of his vision, he sees his younger self do a double take and soundlessly repeat their son's name. Old Alexander's throat seizes, but he pushes through it.

"You deserved a much more competent presence than- than mine. You deserved the world, and I tried to give it to you, but instead, I ruined us. Philip... I am so sorry."

Slowly, Philip's arm returns to his side as his demeanor melts into some form of pity that digs at Alexander more proficiently than any bullet.

"You know he's already forgiven you. You know whose forgiveness you really seek." Philip tells him, unmistakably in Alexander's own voice.

The flame licks at Philip's feet. Young Alexander calls out in alarm and begins sprinting toward him, but trips over something in the grass before he can reach him. The fabric on Philip's shoulder catches suddenly, fire spreading across his back almost in an embrace- and for just a fraction of a moment, both Alexanders swear they can see the face of their mother in the inferno. But by the time the younger rights himself, Philip is wholly consumed and dissipates as dust upon the breeze.

"No, come back! I still-"

A spontaneous and vicious gale blasts the Alexanders off-balance, though they're somehow able to remain standing as it buffets them mercilessly. Flame and ash rise and join the wind in its tempestuous mission, trapping them in a restrictive, blistering funnel. Old Alexander doesn't suffer the brunt of it, besides the inconvenience of getting pushed around by a bunch of fiery detritus, owing to the fact that his senses are greatly numbed in this purgatory. But young Alexander is not so macabrely lucky. He has to shut his watering eyes to protect them from the heat as his skin prickles and singes. His chest heaves in spasms at every dry, dusty inhale. 

It releases them just as suddenly as it came, depositing them into the middle of a cold and barren room absent of any defining features - not even a door or window in sight - save for a dimly illuminating fireplace on one wall and a plain bed on the opposite wall. Young Alexander collapses to his knees, enervated.

"Oh, God, are- are you alright?"

Old Alexander moves to kneel beside his younger self and places a concerned hand on his shoulder. The other nods blankly. None of that rough burning sensation lingers anywhere on or in his body, but it still takes his mind several moments to process that he's no longer in danger. He's not at all tempted to linger on how he can possibly continue to have near-death experiences. Instead, he acknowledges the horrific realizations creeping closer to his retroactive recollection and casts wide-eyed scrutiny in his counterpart's direction.

_"What have you done?"_

Old Alexander opens his mouth, presumably to defend himself from the implication of wrongdoing, but wilts in shame and withdraws physical contact, knowing damn well that he indeed has plenty wrongdoing under his belt to be ashamed of. Time to confess.

"I... had a lapse in judgment."

Since when had formulating words become such an onerous task? Words are everything to him. He's relied on their power his entire life. Why now do they fail him, when there's only him and no more pressure to impress?

"I made a mistake. I made many increasingly egregious mistakes, which, it could be argued, might have stemmed from the same prolonged lapse in judgment, beginning on the night that I... the night that I consented to infidelity."

A spark of flame shoots out of the fireplace, landing just in front of young Alexander. He watches it flare and spread, burning a rectangular shape onto the hardwood flooring. Mesmerized, he reaches out to graze his hand over the embers; but it dies the moment he sinks his palm into it, and what he touches is a warm stack of parchment. His confession.

Old Alexander wearily stands to give the other some space, forcing himself to witness his counterpart's youthful innocence hardening as he is confronted with evidence of the sin that this particular instance of himself had not committed, yet must shoulder all the same, being one part of the whole of him. The elder wants to turn away and cover his face and forget, but he does not. The younger wants to fling this offending document (of which he has by now relearned every word through osmosis alone) back into the fire, and maybe himself or his other self along with it, but he also does not.

"I didn't intend to! As God is my witness, I never wanted it to happen." old Alexander finds himself blurting out to explain. There's no need to, but it's the only way he knows how to resolve a situation. Dig himself out or dig himself deeper. "I didn't even take much pleasure in the act: I had so much on my plate at the time, the affair only felt like more weight added to my pile of crushing burdens."

"And yet you kept going back to her. Despite how it haunted us, despite how unfavorable it was for _everyone_ involved, you didn’t stop."

"...I know," he murmurs, "I know."

They hear rustling from some unidentified presence on the bed behind them. Neither of them care to look, but it doesn't seem to matter: the section of floor they're situated on rotates like a giant disc to face them in the appropriate direction, revealing a lithe shadow-figure sitting on the edge of the bed, legs obscenely displayed, casually reclining the weight of its upper body on one hand. It's other hand beckons him closer. One of him. Both of him? The Alexanders look at each other uneasily.

"I don't want to." young Alexander tries.

The figure stops beckoning and seems to consider this, then reaches out toward them to gesture more earnestly, perhaps even desperately. Old Alexander figures it's his turn to speak up.

"I've already said no."

Again the figure pauses. It leans forward to rest its arms on its knees and stares fixedly at the floor. Who is this? Where had either of them seen these mannerisms? The memory dawns on young Alexander more quickly than it does for his older self (who has forgotten nearly as much as he remembers) and he scrambles to stand.

"John?"

The fireplace swells brighter, enough to put color back into the walls and banish the shadow from the figure on the bed, bestowing its revealing light upon an erstwhile John Laurens. John tilts his head up to observe both of them with a wistful smile, his smile spreading a bit when young Alexander shoots back a smirk. Old Alexander, on the other hand, is sorely overcome by the sight of him. John doesn't look a day older than the last day they'd seen each other. He's endured decades without John- and he still does, he has to remind himself, because this isn't anything more than wish fulfillment batting its eyes at him. A product of his imagination. But, Heavens, what a convincing sight he is. Old Alexander's heart aches for what could have been.

As if in response to this unspoken longing, John takes his hand and pulls him downward for a steady - if somewhat awkwardly angled - hug. It's not enough. Old Alexander can't breathe him in, can't feel or hear his own pulse quickening from the intimacy, and he's utterly certain that if they kissed, he wouldn't be able to taste fresh thrill on his tongue- just a faded nostalgia. But even if he did have full command of his senses, that's all made inconsequential because he's literally comforting himself, dreaming up a familiar face to officiate his self-indulgent self pity which disgusts him equally as much as it sustains him. So when John slides a hand to old Alexander's cheek, tilting his head to better drawl in his ear, this time Alexander knows to expect an earful of his own voice.

'John' tells him: "I would say it's good to see you, but... honestly, you look like shit."

"That's because I've lived a life, John. Maybe not quite a full one, but time takes its toll. You're lucky you died handsome."

They break the hug and John chuckles.

"Yeah, seems like I got the better bargain, old man."

"'Old man?' Okay. This interaction just became far more depraved than I think I can handle, so, let's _not."_

"You have genuinely no one but yourself to blame for that one!" John gibes back with a playfully wicked grin. 

But he ends it there, and a short period of quiet befalls the room. John encourages old Alexander to sit beside him; they hold hands (and Alexander tries not to think too hard about it, wanting to preserve the mood) as they watch young Alexander, who had tactfully wandered over to the fireplace to let the other two reconnect, and who has now taken to burning that damnable stack of pages in his hands one sheet at a time. Old Alexander is glad to see it destroyed.

"I did the best I could." he broods, the fire's reflection flashing in his eyes. "Obviously there are moments I'm not proud of, moments I wish I'd never allowed to happen- but, they happened, and I must accept that. Still, I lived the only way I knew how. I won't be ashamed of that."

"All in all, I'd say it went better than expected. Barring the obvious."

"Barring the obvious. Right."

Spots of bright distortion damps old Alexander's sight the longer he fixates on the curling flames, the burning parchment, the vibrant embers shooting up and evaporating in the air. He's so entranced by it. He barely feels John patting the back of his hand.

"You need rest, Alexander. It's time to rest."

He frowns in protest but makes no attempt to resist when John lightly grips his arm. John is right, and Alexander is so tired. His entire body grows heavier under the power of suggestion alone as they crawl onto the bed proper. Yes, he agrees to himself, it _is_ time to rest. What else should a dead man do? His head finds a pillow, and within the second, his eyelids droop shut. Shame. He would've liked to stare at John's face a little more. He reaches out to find John's hand again, but the hand he finds feels much warmer and clutches him with nervous tension.

Young Alexander can't figure out what the scene wants from him, here and now as it has slid him beside his older self in John's place. Whose will is being exerted upon them, exactly? It can't be himself doing this. He's just another ghost, after all: a literal ghost of his past, more similar to his mind's phantoms like John and Philip than to his own self. But how could it be his older self summoning him so close? Was there some intended motivation or meaning to be gained from this?

Neither of them speak for the longest time. The silence melts the walls, which age and warp and rot away to reveal a second room beyond, larger and grander by far. It's a courtroom that Alexander remembers well, having won many battles of a legal sort here. Beds don't belong in a courtroom: they are unloaded upon the floor when it disappears.

" _How_ many _times..._ it's a heavy-handed metaphor at this point," young Alexander complains, yet again having to push himself upright with a groan. Old Alexander hums lightly in affirmation, but makes no move to follow suit. He doesn't move at all.

"Hey... me? Alexander?" the young counterpart calls out. He hears his voice ring out from elsewhere in the room.

"You went and got yourself into quite the predicament, Hamilton."

George Washington watches them from the judge's bench. Old Alexander stands, but unnaturally, not of his own power. He appears even older somehow, or perhaps simply fatigued. He's pressing his wound again. It's not a good sign. With paling complexion and lethargic eyes that threaten to shut forever, he addresses Washington.

"With all due respect, sir, I think this is a bit more than a predicament."

"Oh, do you now? It's good to see you've learned to take these things seriously. On death's door might be verging on 'too late', but there's never a wrong moment to learn a lesson."

"Have I?" Old Alexander's shoulders sagged. "Have I learned anything?"

"Do you repent for the mistakes you've made?"

"... _Yes."_

"Then you've learned." Washington shifts in his seat and leans over the stand to stare pointedly at him. "And without a moment to spare, unsurprisingly."

"No- wait- it can't be," young Alexander interjects, fear heaping in his stomach like sludge. He doesn't give a damn what his older self has learned, he still hasn't found _his_ closure. "Not yet!"

"Why not? Everything ends, Hamilton. Even you."

"Please. Just a _little_ more time, that's all I want! Just _one_ more chance to see them again, to say goodbye." 

Both of them eye young Alexander, taken aback by his insistence.

" _One_ last time."

"Low blow, using his own words to appeal to him," Washington chortles. "Though you do realize by now that Washington himself doesn't actually hold any sway over you, right? This is merely some extension of you in a different package. If you wanted to regain consciousness, the only person you have to convince is yourself. And, well. You're doing it."

Old Alexander nods slowly, some of the exhaustion lifting from his face. 

"I left a few letters behind for Eliza, but... oh, knowing that I’m breaking her heart yet again is too much to bear. I’ll suffer in defiance of death if it allows me to coax even one smile out of her before I pass."

Young Alexander laughs in relief and clings tightly to old Alexander's shoulders.

"I can't promise that I won't want more than that. I'll always want more than what one man could possibly entertain in a single lifetime."

"I understand, believe me. It won't be enough. But it _will_ be worth our effort."

The floor beneath them blooms in a blinding display of color, cracking along every seam before giving way under their weight and thrusting them into an iridescent abyss. The two Alexanders hold onto each other as best they can; as they fall, their figures twist and fuse together into one being. The colors rushing up (or down?) at him begin to come into focus, wide strokes of orange and purple and gray moving against the loveliest blue he thinks he's ever seen. He's on his back, he notes. Deep green splotches rustle in the very corner of his vision. Birds sing. People are talking at him now, with concern sticking their throats. The morning air breathes cool on his sweaty face. He doesn't even mind the pain all that much, honestly.

As they row him back across the Hudson, he just can't wait to see his family again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :)
> 
> i hardly ever finish anything anymore, so the fact that i managed to finish and share this feels pretty good right now. that being said, it might be the only thing i ever do for hamilton because im really not great with history and facts, haha  
> \---
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at thisisasupergoodidea.tumblr.com


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